Rebels and Russians
by canyr12
Summary: Sequel to The Russian Prince. Karolek arrives in New York, and runs into a few Immortals along the way. Now, what to do with Reggie?
1. Default Chapter

Yes, it's the sequel to Karolek's story that I promised. I finally started it! Bravo for me.  
  
What follows is back history for the Russian Prince universe, as requested by Pig Sticker. I figured I'd post it here, in case people didn't get to see it on the original thread. If you haven't read it, I suggest you read chapter 2 and chapter 6. They're the most important for the time being.  
  
Anyway, back history of the Turtledove 20th century, ala me.  
  
Lee does not lose at Gettysburg. He wins, and both Great Britain and France tell Lincoln that the US must acknoledge the existence of the Confederacy or face a war with them. Lincoln does, and quite bitterly. Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Florida, Kentucky, Tennessee, Alabama, Mississippi, Arkansas, Louisiana, Texas, and Oklahoma (known in the storyverse as Sequoyah) become the CSA. So too does Cuba. Maine, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Vermont, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Deleware, Maryland, West Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Iowa, Missouri, Kansas, Nebraska, Dakota Territory (both Dakotas), Montana, Colorado, Wyoming Territory, Utah Territory, Idaho Territory, Washington Territory, Nevada, and California remain in the United States.  
  
Following his defeat in the election of 1864, Lincoln becomes enamored of Marxism. He convinces half of the Republican party to join the Socialists with him. The two major parties in the US become the Democrats and the Socialists, with a tiny Republican group in the Midwest. (How Few Remain)  
  
In 1881, the US and CS go to war over the CS purchase of Chihuahua and Sonora from the Empire of Mexico. The US loses. Again. Badly. Becomes obsessed with gaining revenge against the CS. The CS is forced by Britain, in exchange for a continued alliance, to free their slaves. Blacks are freed, but are not citizens, and as such their lives don't improve much at all. They're essentially slaves with play. Many become closet Socialists. (How Few Remain)  
  
WWI arrives with the assassination of Franz Ferdinand. The CS, Great Britain, France, and Canada go to war agains the US, Imperial Germany, and the Austrians. The worst front in the US is the Roanoke front in Virginia, followed by Tennessee (headed by an overly aggressive and not scalped George Armstrong Custer), along with the eastern Canadian fronts.  
  
The US and Germany win in a most convincing fashion, partially aided by the black Socialist revolt of 1916. The US takes back a large chunk of northern Virginia, all of Kentucky, parts of Arkansas, all of Sequoyah, and part of Texas and Sonora. The bit of Texas becomes the US state of Houston. Sonora, Sequoyah, and Canada are placed under military occupation, along with Mormon Utah (which had its own revolt and is not in really good favor). Quebec becomes its own republic under the "wing" of the US. The CS gets slammed with what is essentially the Treaty of Versailles, having to pay millions in reparations and losing most of it's military. They end up with essentially the same problems as Germany after WWI, including runaway inflation and internal instability. Germany does the same to France, but that's not covered much. (Great War series)  
  
After the war, the Socialists take power in the US, then lose it when the stock market crashes. In the time frame of the story, Hoover has just been ousted as the Democratic president of the US and replaced by Socialist Al Smith. This is in 1936, Hoover is not president when the market crashes in '29.  
  
In the CS, the Freedom party (think the Nazis with southern accents) has taken power on a wave of (partially forced) popular support. They are led by the fanatical and maniacally calculating Jake Featherston. Featherston us butter about a lot of things for a lot of reasons, mostly at the blacks for rising up during the war. He's slowly cleaning house, and is continuing with his old habits of having his goons assassinate anyone who gets in his way. (American Empire series, books 1 and 2)  
  
In the last book of the series thus far, The Victorious Opposition, Smith adopts a policy of appeasement towards Featherston and the Freedom party, who are slowly starting to rearm the CS. He's also treating CS blacks much the way Hitler initially treated the Jews in Europe. The US and CS agree to plebscites in Kentucky and Houston, both of which choose to go back to the CS. The US keeps Sequoyah and Canada under military occupation. Featherston is itching for his chance to swing back at the US, and is starting to move into place for an invasion. The US doesn't seem to know it's about to be dragged into another was (in 1939, same as our world).  
  
Turtledove is supposedly writing WWII now.  
  
Hope this helps set up the world of the stories. 


	2. Chapter 1: Arrival in New York

Rebels and Russians  
  
Sequel to "The Russian Prince." It can probably stand on its own, but some of the back references won't make much sense without reading the first story...well...first. Familiar characters still aren't mine. Connor and Duncan belong to the Highlander people, Reggie Bartlett, the Jacobsens, and the state of the world belong to Harry Turtledove. (though his fate belongs to me)  
  
As with before, dialogue contained in - - is spoken in the original language of the speaker. That means Russian for Karolek and Gaelic for Connor. :)  
  
Chapter 1: Arrival in New York  
  
Penn Station New York City  
  
April 2, 1936  
  
Penn Station, he decided, was a perfect microcosm for New York City as a whole. It was smoky and entirely too crowded, with people rushing madly in every direction and often talking loudly at one another in a cacophony of languages. It all lead to the inevitable conclusion.  
  
Karolek Romanov had been spending too long in cities.  
  
The Russian-born Immortal sighed heavily at the prospect of spending yet more time in New York. While Connor seemed to thrive on the place, Karolek hated it with a passion. He couldn't remember anything good ever having happened to him here, and he still had some horrid memories of winters spent with George Washington, looking for a way to unseat the British from the city. The city was also some sort of Immortal beacon, right up there with Paris, and Challenges were nearly unavoidable. Not a thrilling prospect for a man who'd been doing a great deal of fighting of late. Yes, it could be safely said that Karolek was not a fan of New York City.  
  
"-So the question remains, self. What exactly are you doing here?-" The intrusion of an all too familiar sensation on his thoughts, followed by a cheerful shout of his name brought him back to reality. "Oh yeah..."  
  
Impatiently, Connor MacLeod called out to his friend again. "Karolek!" Satisfied that the impertinent former prince was looking in his direction, he made a motion with his arms that all too clearly said "Hurry up."  
  
Laughing to himself at Connor's obvious annoyance, Karolek made a great show of collecting his suitcase before bending down and even more deliberately reaching for the long case which held the sword he'd so recently taken from Jacob Book. Before his hand could get there, another shot in front of him and snatched the case from the ground.  
  
"You're a pain, you know that Romanov? A royal pain." Connor chuckled at his pun, while Karolek simply groaned. Loudly.  
  
"I've been told once or twice. So sue me. I hate trains. Whatever happened to horses? At least a horse has a personality. You can talk to a horse. Trains are noisy and gritty and they smell."  
  
"A fact which I notice does not stop you from using them." The Highlander pointed out, making for the exit "You sound old, Karo."  
  
Karolek shrugged. "I am old." He pointed out. "It's been a long month, Connor. The kind that makes forever seem even longer."  
  
"So your telegram said." The two Immortals walked out into the sunshine, deciding to walk in the semi-warm air rather than trying to hail a cab in the station crush. Well, warm if you did your growing up in Moscow or in the highlands of Scotland, anyway. To the general population of New York, it might well have still been winter. "-Book went down hard, I take it?-"  
  
"-And then some.-" Karolek agreed. "Nowhere near the fighter I remembered him being. Not even the fighter I expected him to be. Two in two days, Connor? Don't recommend it."  
  
Connor looked over at his friend. Karolek looked, to put it quite mildly, like hell. Dark smudges were evident under his eyes. There was a tired air about him that Connor didn't remember seeing on the Russian since Sabine had been killed and he'd fought ben Saul 70 years ago. The ironic, occasionally obnoxious personality, that he'd so briefly glimpsed on the station floor seemed gone. Were he not an Immortal, he'd probably look a good deal worse. As it was, he looked every bit of his 417 years. The fight with Book had taken a lot out of him, as had the piggybacked Quickenings, but Connor suspected more than the physical. Washington had done a lot to remind Karolek of the sort of person he'd been 250 years ago...the sort of person the Russian no longer cared to remember he'd ever been. "Noted."  
  
Karolek looked over at Connor, willing the man to understand that the last thing he wanted to do was talk about Book and his fights in Washington. The prince wasn't entirely sure that he'd processed everything that had happened in the two weeks since, and was looking to avoid the general topic of Immortality altogether for the time being.  
  
"You game for going out later tonight?" Connor inquired, walking towards the entrance to the building on his property. "Or worn out from your arduous train journey."  
  
"You jest." Karolek complained. "But I had to sit next to this annoying young woman who kept trying to...to be honest, I don't know WHAT she was trying to do. But I made it very clear that I wasn't interested, and she still kept doing it."  
  
"Oh, the horror of being attractive to the opposite gender." Connor snickered, pulling his keys from the pocket of his overcoat. "You and my kinsman, I swear you get almost all of the good women."  
  
"Hey, I remember a VERY appreciative tavern maid in England during the French Revolution." The Russian complained, continuing, "I thought she and I might have really had something."  
  
"You had nothing. Not even the remotest glimmer of a chance, Karo. That accent of yours scares people at times. Now a good Scottish brogue."  
  
"Which bears no resemblance to anything coming out of your mouth for 50 years or more." Karolek retorted, following his friend into the building. He dropped his bag next to the front door, figuring that by the time he and Connor came back, he'd be lucky to make it to the couch, much less into one of the spare bedrooms.  
  
Connor went to hand Karolek the sword case, but the Russian vigorously shook his head. "No. Put it up in storage for me? Till I can collect it and take it back to Moscow?"  
  
"If you like." Connor agreed. Karolek's often transient nature meant that he had no place to keep things while he was on the American continent. Connor often kept things safe for Karolek, until the Russian could bring them back to his family's palace just outside of Moscow, which the prince still owned. "Mind if I take a look at it?"  
  
"Suit yourself." Karolek consented, shedding his own overcoat and flopping down on one of the armchairs.  
  
Connor snapped open the flat carrying case, revealing a gleaming silver blade and the blued-metal basket of Jacob Book's schiavona. He picked it up and gave it a few experimental moves, testing the weight and balance of the piece. "Tis a good blade, well balanced." Karolek called his agreement. "Are you planning to sell it?"  
  
Karolek pivoted in the chair, hanging his booted feet over one arm and propping his head and shoulders on the other. He brushed some cornsilk hair out of his eyes, fixing pale gray orbs on Connor. "Not sure. It IS a good piece, and there's a fellow at the palace who'd probably take it at a fine price. Then again, Mackenzie's 160th is in two months, she might like it as a present."  
  
"She'd not start using it." Connor pointed out. "She'll use the piece her father made for her until she dies, or it breaks, whichever comes first." The first of Karolek's untrained students and the Georgian-born daughter of an Irish blacksmith had always had an eye for swords. Even before she'd become Immortal, even before both Karolek and Connor had done some training with her, she'd been fascinated by them. "There's also the small matter of her being in Jamaica. I don't think the Rebs or the British enjoy having people ship arms into what they think are their islands."  
  
"True enough." Karolek agreed. "But she might like it all the same. And if she doesn't...it's a hard won sword, Connor. Just put it away somewhere." He sighed, rolled off the chair, and made for the spare bedroom. The door closed behind him with a very final click.  
  
Silently, Connor packed the schiavona away in the case and locked it shut. The case went on a shelf in the large storage room at the back of the building, until Karolek decided what he wanted to do with it. Coming back into the room, he looked steadily at the closed door of his spare room. 'And he claims Scots do all the brooding.'  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
"It's not that the football game wasn't enjoyable, Connor," the Russian groused, glaring at his friend, "but must you keep gloating that the New York team beat the Washington Barrels?"  
  
"Why not?" Connor laughed. "My team won."  
  
"GAAAH." Karolek yelled. "Washington is NOT my team, Scottish dunce! I am not FROM Washington. I do not ROOT for Washington. I don't even LIKE football."  
  
"I know. I just wanted to see how long it would take before I got you good and angry."  
  
"You, mi compadre, are a pain in the ass."  
  
"I've been told." Connor laughed again. "Come on, a few beers. Loosen yourself up. Stop thinking so damned much. That's the problem with you educated chess-playing types. You overthink everything, and it's bloody depressing."  
  
Incredulously, Karolek asked, "This from the great brooding champion of our times?"  
  
"Duncan's not here."  
  
Groaning again, Karolek dropped his head to the table while Connor disappeared from the table to grab the first round. Tilting his head to the side, he began to size up the hole-in-the-wall that Connor had dragged him into, near the new football stadium. It was dark and crowded, with a lower level in addition to the street-level that the Immortals were sitting in. The bar, which had no name that he was aware of, was filled with men and older boys in working class clothes, a few low-level clerks and business workers mixed in for good measure. In the din of the bar, he could make out conversations taking place in English, Italian, Yiddish, Russian, and a few others in mixed-up combinations of one or more languages that he could barely follow. Most of the patrons had come from the football game, and with New York having won, were in good sprits. There were worse reasons, he supposed, to hoist a few. Lord knew he was working through more than his fair share.  
  
Damn it! Even though the bastard was dead, he couldn't get away from Book. It had nothing to do with the man's Quickening, which had been annoying enough to process. He'd taken the glares and disapproving lectures from Nellie Jacobsen for a day, allowing her to think he was drunk. For the two after the Inauguration, he really had been. No, Book's essence had left him alone. His ghost, however, was much harder to get rid of. The nightmares kept coming...the Challenges kept coming. No matter what he did, what his name, or where he went, they always seemed to find him.  
  
A flash of light across his eyes, pressure at the base of his skull, and a humming sensation in his ears. Another Immortal. He glanced back in the direction that Connor had disappeared. The Highlander was still in the crush at the bar, paying the bartender and waiting for his change. He was out of Karolek's range, and hadn't noticed the sensation of the new arrival. So the newbie was probably just that, and was on the lower level of the bar.  
  
Slowly, Karolek pushed his chair back and stood, under the guise of stretching out some of the cramps in his back. His metal-gray eyes began to survey the room, looking for the likely suspect to be the newly arrived Immortal. No one else seemed to be obviously scanning the room.  
  
Connor, arriving with their drinks, noticed Karolek's alert posture. The sensation of a third Immortal washed over him, and he joined the Russian in the search. Pointing to a tall, gangly man with dark hair, dressed in jeans and a long coat, he suggested, "That one, in the corner."  
  
"Nyet."  
  
"And why not?" Connor argued.  
  
"Because it's that one." The Highlander followed Karolek's pointed finger to a small table nestled into the corner by the stairs which allowed patrons to move between the street level and the lower level. The man that Karolek had fixed on was sitting alone, pushed as far back into the corner as he could possibly get, arms resting on the table.  
  
"How do you figure?"  
  
Biting his lip for a moment, Karolek explained, "He looked pained when he sat down, but I thought maybe he was just a Barrels fan." Connor chuckled. "Until you came up. Now he's pinching the bridge of his nose like he's trying to ward off a headache. Tell me that's not how you reacted before you knew what an Immortal felt like and got used to it." The Scot made no such admission. Instead, he caught the sleeve of Karolek's coat as the Russian pushed past him towards the stairs.  
  
"Where are you going?" he demanded.  
  
"To investigate, of course."  
  
"I thought you had sworn off fighting for a while."  
  
The Russian grinned his first honest grin since he'd arrived in New York. "Said nothing about fighting. Investigating. We must work on your listening skills, MacLeod." Connor responded with a rude gesture. "That fellow look like he's in any position to fight anyone? If he's putting one on, he's the best actor I've seen among us in a long time. He's no Martins. If he's not what he seems, YOU fight him and I'll run away." He slipped from Connor's grasp and descended to the main floor, leaving a deeply disgruntled Scot in his wake.  
  
He moved easily through the crowd, carefully protecting the sword tucked into the left side of his coat. While not exceptionally tall or burly, there was an air of menace about him that prompted even the biggest coal- shovelers to move out of his way. Perhaps it was the half-deadened look in his gray eyes. Maybe it was the confidence in the way he carried himself. Maybe it was the ponytail and the black clothes. None of the New Yorkers could have said why they darted out of his way, nor would they have been able to pick him out of a lineup. For an Immortal, a god-sent gift.  
  
Karolek slid noiselessly into the seat across from the brunet stranger. The man continued to rub the bridge of his nose, not even recognizing the presence that was now sitting at his table. After studying the other Immortal for a moment, Karolek decided that he was right. This guy was young. Probably no older than 30 or 35, physically, which was older than both Karolek and Connor. Yet since he hadn't even looked up as the Russian's presence increased, Karolek was willing to bet most of his fortune that the man hadn't met many other Immortals, if any at all, and hadn't the first clue what he was.  
  
"Hello."  
  
The man looked up, dropping his hand but blinking hard against the continued buzzing in his head. Someone sitting down to have a conversation with him. Joy. Not only did he have this newly developed killer headache to deal with, he had to hide his accent, too. "Hi. Not much for talking, ok?"  
  
"Right." Karolek agreed, trying to sound upbeat and agreeable. He folded his arms and leaned against the table, studying the other man. His brown hair was short, but combed neatly back from his face. Brown eyes reflected a sense of physical and emotional pain that Karolek was more than familiar with. He lowered his voice and leaned closer to the man. "So you're from where.the Carolinas? No, not slow enough to be from there. Further north. Say, Virginia? Richmond?"  
  
The unmasked Confederate blanched sheet white. "H-h-h-how how did you...?" he trailed off, unable to say anymore.  
  
Shrugging, Karolek allowed his faint Russian accent to get a little thicker. "It's a gift." Actually it was a skill he'd picked up over the years, and a very useful one as the world's borders had been divided, rearranged, and fooled with. Sometimes an origin of accent was all a person had to distinguish their nationality...well, that and a fair amount of hatred for their enemies. "So when did it happen?"  
  
"When did what happen?"  
  
"The war?" Karolek pressed. "Or after?"  
  
To a younger eye, the abject fear in the Confederate's face would have gone unnoticed. To a man 400 years old, who had spent most of his life reading the emotions and intentions of others, it was as plain as a verbal declaration. Karolek did give the Rebel credit, he steeled himself pretty well and did try to cover, keeping his voice low to keep the New York crowd from hearing his now unmasked Virginia accent. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."  
  
A wolfish grin appeared unbidden on Karolek's young face. "Sure you do. You got shot, or maybe it was stabbed. Could have been shrapnel. You swore you were dying, only then you woke up, and your wound was gone. Poof. Like it was never there. And all of a sudden, you never had another cut or bruise stay around for long."  
  
"Oh my god." The brunet breathed out slowly, trying frantically to process what he'd just heard. This random stranger knew. He KNEW. "Y-y-y-you c-c- can't be serious. How could you...you couldn't...how in God's name c-could you KNOW that?"  
  
"Because the same thing happened to me..." Karolek paused, waiting for the first part of his sentence to sink in. ".in 1540." The look on his face convinced the Virginian that he was most definitely not kidding. "You have a name?"  
  
"Reginald Bartlett. Reggie, for short." The young man replied almost inaudibly. "In 1540? Really?"  
  
"Yes, really. I'm Karolek Romanov." He introduced himself. "And you, Reggie, have got a lot to learn."  
  
"Learn about what?"  
  
"Things I have no intention of talking about in a bar." Karolek said by way of an answer. "Come on."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I'm older and I said so." He stood, gunmetal gray eyes fixed on Reggie until the new Immortal stood as well. Again, Karolek moved through the crowd, repeating his circuit from before. A strong hand brought Reggie along with him, to the table where Connor had been intently watching the conversation. As they walked, Karolek took note of the way that Reggie held his left shoulder, and the slight limp in his walk. He'd been in the war, of that Karolek was sure, and he'd been wounded pretty good while he was there. The look on Connor's face said that he'd noticed the injuries as well. Training would not be easy.  
  
The pair stopped at the table, standing under Connor's watchful gaze. "Reggie, this is Connor MacLeod. He's been around as long as I have. An old friend. Connor, this is Reggie Bartlett."  
  
Connor grimaced slightly at Karolek's easy distribution of is real name. It wasn't information he liked to pass out on a regular basis. Kept the crazies away. But now was not the time to pummel his old friend for his mental laziness. Better to appear like some semblance of a sane person. "Nice to meet you, Reggie."  
  
"Likewise." Reggie replied hesitantly, unsure of the situation. Things had happened so fast over the past few minutes...and his head still hurt like hell. More so, even.  
  
"Connor, we're in need of a long chat with Reggie." He raised an eyebrow and mouthed the words "doesn't know." Connor's eyes widened a fraction, and he nodded ever so slightly. "I think we're going to need someplace more private to talk."  
  
"Sure." Connor stood, pulling his coat around him. "We'll head back." The three Immortals exited the bar and quickly set out for Connor's home.  
  
~~~~~~~  
  
Seated in Connor's comfortable living room, glasses of good scotch in front of them, the elder Immortals began their subtle examination.  
  
Taking the lead he'd already established, Karolek opened with the first question. "When did it happen, Reggie?"  
  
"1925." Came the slow drawl. The two Immortals exchanged wide-eyed looks that Reggie missed. Immortal for 11 years and not a one of them had found him? "I got into a fight with some of the Freedom party goons over some posters. One of them got a hold of my gun. He shot me. I woke up that morning, and there wasn't any wound. I didn't know what to think. I ran back to my apartment, took what little money I had, and ran like hell. South through Mississippi and Alabama, west through Texas. Did some odd- jobbing to keep myself alive. When the Freedom party started getting strong again, I snuck across the border into Houston and did the same thing there and in Colorado and Kansas. I thought it might be safer to hide from them in the US. What if their goons knew I was alive and came looking for me? I was working my way back to New York. It's so big, I thought it would be the perfect place to hide." He laughed, softly and a little bitterly. "I've only been in town a week."  
  
"You have things?"  
  
"Yes." Reggie said. "Some clothes, book. They're back at the motel, the one near the bar."  
  
"We'll go get them later." Karolek promised.  
  
Reggie raised his brown eyes to meet Karolek's pale gray ones. "Karolek?"  
  
"Da, Reggie?"  
  
The Confederate rolled his shoulders, willing away the ache from his old war wound. "What am I? What kind of thing heals like I do? Like you said you both do too? How can you both be 400 years old?"  
  
Connor shrugged his shoulders at Karolek, clearly indicating that this was the Russian's show. He figured that ultimately the prince would either take on Reggie as a student, or maybe connect him with someone who could, like Mackenzie.  
  
"You're an Immortal, Reggie." Karolek replied directly. "That's why you heal up so quickly. It's why you came back to life. And it's why, under the right circumstances, you'll live for a very, very long time." 


	3. Decisions, Decisions

I know, I know. This took a really long time to get out. Sorry. Hopefully part 3 will arrive a lot faster.  
  
Chapter 2: Decisions, Decisions  
  
Disclaimer: Still not mine. But oh, if they were.  
  
He felt the other man approach long before he acknowledged him. After several long minutes of silence, Reggie complained, "I don't like this."  
  
"There's a lot about it not to like." Karolek agreed. He placed a mug of coffee next to the young Confederate, before sitting down next to him on the sidewalk. Reggie barely acknowledged his presence, continuing to stare straight ahead at the edge of the walk across the street. It was too late...or rather too early, for many people to be out. Understandably, Reggie had been feeling stressed and confined within Connor's living room, and had retreated to the front steps to think. It wasn't quite far enough to escape the headache-inducing presence of Karolek and Connor, so he'd gone only as far as the curb. Connor's intense warning not to go away from the house had frightened him too much to actually test the man's good will. "But there's good about it, too."  
  
Reggie laughed sarcastically, looking through haunted brown eyes at the eternally youthful Russian next to him. "Yeah, the idea of being a cripple for a couple of centuries carries a lot of appeal." He looked down at his outstretched leg. "Goddamn war ruined everything, didn't it."  
  
Karolek wisely opted to say nothing at the moment. He wasn't sure there was much he could say. He didn't know where Reggie was coming from. The Confederate had been a full 15 years older than Karolek when he died his first death, and had a legitimate complaint about his war wounds. Shrapnel had left him with a weak right shoulder and a slight limp in his right leg. He wasn't much of a doctor - the field had never held much interest for him - but he thought a proper workout would help strengthen the muscles. Reggie would never be a powerful fighter, certainly he lacked the strength of someone like Duncan, but then so did Karolek himself. If they could get past his attitude, the man could and likely would survive.  
  
An awkward silence settled over Connor's sidewalk, both men lost in their thoughts.  
  
Reggie's mind whirled with the incredible information that he'd been given last night. Immortality. The prospect of living forever, able to do whatever he wanted. Even with his wounds, the idea held some appeal. He could strike back against the Freedom party without fear of permanent damage. Featherston wouldn't be able to do anything to him that would stick. Even death couldn't stop him.  
  
The rest of the story, about swords and beheadings and holy ground had been enough to make him feel ill. Reggie wasn't entirely sure he hadn't thrown up at least once during the conversation.  
  
Karolek tried to plot his next move. Connor had said that he and Reggie could stay as long as they needed, but he had no plans to try and teach the Confederate himself.  
"You'll need to get him somewhere where you can teach him, Karolek, and you'll need to do it quickly."  
"Yeah, I know." Karolek sighed. Gesturing in the direction of his now empty scotch glass, he asked "Is there more of this?" Connor obliged him with a refill, which the Russian prince began to sip at slowly. "He's got a lot to combat."  
Nodding, Connor agreed. "That limp and the arm won't make his life easier, that's for sure. Looks like he's naturally right handed, too. Plus the fact that swordfighting hasn't exactly been en vogue for a century or more." Sipping on his own drink he asked, "So what do you plan to do to correct that?"  
"What makes you think I plan to correct it at all?" Karolek raised his eyebrows at the Highlander.  
"Because you didn't suggest calling Mackenzie as soon as you opened your mouth." Connor smiled lightly at the indignant look on Karolek's face. "She's the only other left handed fighter that you're close enough with that you could go asking this kind of favor. She's also about the same level of strength as Reggie is likely to be."  
"I dunno, Connor." He sighed heavily, staring at the front door. "I don't have any business telling anyone how to live their life. Not lately."  
"You'd be talking about Jacob Book, then?" The sardonic look he received from his old friend was answer enough. "So because you had a rough patch you're going to hide? Then why are we doing this? Why in god's name did you go looking for the other Immortal at the bar, and when you found out what he was, why did you drag him back to my house?" He clucked his tongue. "The Karolek I'm friends with doesn't run and hide like this. He never has and never will. If you're not going to help this kid, if all you're going to do is wallow in guilt over bad choices from centuries ago, why are we doing this?"  
  
Why indeed. Karolek didn't have the answers that Connor wanted...he didn't even have the answers that he wanted. He felt all jumbled up inside. The highlander had always felt a sense of personal responsibility, one instilled by Ramirez or so Karolek thought, to ensure that the "good guys" - whoever they were - won the Game and the Prize. Their friendship had developed only after Connor had decided that the Russian had reformed and now WAS one of the good guys. It was a distinction Karo now wondered if he was entitled. Could someone who'd lived his life be good? Or was it all a vain attempt to whitewash a sooted past...  
  
Which brought him back to the question of Reggie, and what to do about the man. He needed a teacher. That much was certain, as was the fact that Connor outright refused to be that Immortal. He hadn't gone looking for Reggie, or so the Highlander explained, and while he was happy to let the young man stay at his home for the time being, the situation was not his responsibility.  
  
'I suppose I could call Mackenzie.' Karolek mused to himself, focusing his slate-gray gaze on a fat pigeon that had landed on the sidewalk opposite the silent Immortals. 'She can teach him how to fight left handed, and she's not very strong which would be an advantage for Reggie. She's...Connor said something about the Sandwich Islands (Hawaii), but that was almost a year ago. She won't stay there long. Redheads fry in the sun there. Even Immortal ones.'  
  
Shaking his head, Karolek decided that was probably dodging the question. Mackenzie was good, loved swords and would be able to fit Reggie to a blade and a fighting style in fairly short order. She was, however, only 160. Connor HAD been younger when he'd taken on Duncan as a student, but the Russian remained unconvinced that the southerner was ready to take on the responsibility of a student who had to be trained from the ground up. There wasn't anyone else he really considered calling in a situation like this. Khan Seh would take the same position as Connor. Kamani was younger than Mackenzie, and Kai, while 2000 years old, wasn't much on students since the last one had tried to kill her in her sleep.  
  
Which left him. A one-time headhunter, trying to train an Immortal without very good odds for surviving in the long run. A young man bitter about his Immortality, cursing a destructive war that had left him with consequences that would never, EVER go away. And never had just become a potentially long time. No wonder Reggie had been sick to his stomach last night. In his position, Karolek probably would have been too.  
  
"So what now?"  
  
Startled, Reggie looked over at Karolek. "What do you mean?" He understood the question - he wasn't that out of it - but not where it came from or what he was supposed to do about much of anything. He was the person whose life had been turned upside down and torn apart, and a 400 year old man was asking him what happened now?  
  
"Where do you want to go from here?" Karolek repeated levelly.  
  
Reggie was surprised. "You're honestly asking me?" The Russian nodded. "I didn't realize I had a whole lot of options."  
  
"You don't." Karolek quipped. "But you do have a few." Tilting his head to one side and fixing his gray eyes on Reggie, he explained, "You're Immortal, Reg. Forever is a long time. No one can be responsible for you but you. You seem like a good guy, and I want you to have a nice long life. But I won't tell you how to live it. I'm not much qualified for that."  
  
"You're 400 years old and you're not qualified to tell me how to survive?"  
  
"Survive, yes." Karolek answered distantly. "But there's a difference between surviving and living. I'm not in any position to tell anyone how to live." He held up a forestalling hand. "Connor will tell you that I'm one of the good guys. Someone who can be trusted. The second part is true. As for the first..."  
  
"As for the first?" Reggie parroted, hoping for an explanation to the cryptic remark. The long silence that followed told him that no matter how long he waited, Karolek was willing to wait longer. As for the prince, he didn't know Reggie well enough to tell the man how he'd spent his late hundreds and early two hundreds. "So...options." Reggie said awkwardly. "What do I get to pick from." Furrowing his brow under brown bangs, he asked, "I am the one who has to pick, right?"  
  
Karolek laughed. "Yes, you are the one that gets to pick. As I see it you have three options. Option number one. You're free to walk away from here, go on living your life as you have been. Hope you can stay out of the way of other Immortals, run away if you do meet up with one. Maybe the guy you'll meet will be a good guy who doesn't want to fight. Maybe they'll be one of the ones who takes the Game seriously and won't let you walk away. It's a crapshoot, really, but it is your life."  
  
"Doesn't sound like much of one." Reggie said thoughtfully. "Go on running for the rest of my life? The only thing I know how to be is a pharmacists assistant, and I can't do that forever. I'm running out of money and places to hide. Thanks, but no thanks. What's option number two?"  
  
"I'll forge you a set of papers and get you to Paris."  
  
"I like the sound of Paris." Reggie interjected.  
  
"I have a friend there, Darius." Karolek continued as though Reggie hadn't spoken. His single-mindedness when he was laying out a plan had driven his generals mad while he was still the Prince of Moscow. He refused to hear anything until he was done speaking his piece. Had he any interest in pursuing the law, that would probably have been a useful characteristic. "Darius is one of us. He runs a church there, and he'll take you in and give you a place on Holy Ground. You'll have to be a monk or a priest for the rest of your life, and never venture off of Holy Ground." The face Reggie made at the suggestion told him everything he needed to know about what the Confederate thought of that suggestion. "It's limiting, I know, but it is an option."  
  
"And not one I particularly like." Reggie confessed. "If I'm Immortal, I want to be able to go places and see things. I..." he paused, trying to decide how best to explain himself. "I grew up in Richmond. My father was a clerk in a bank. When I got out of school, I was apprenticed as a pharmacist's assistant. I served my two years in the army in Richmond. I didn't even leave the state until the war." He laughed sarcastically. "I spent the first two years on the Roanoke front. All I saw was Virginia and Maryland and Pennsylvania. After I was captured and escaped, I was transferred out to Texas. I didn't get to see much or do much then, or when I ran after I died. I've never been out of the CSA or the USA. You and Connor keep telling me that I have forever if I'm lucky and good." Voice low, drawl thickened, he summed up, "If that's really true, I don't want to waste it at a monastery, even if it is in Paris. What's my third option?"  
  
"Your third option is to start training. An Immortal's survival depends on their skill with a sword and their ability to hide both themselves and their means of living." Swallowing hard, Karolek continued, "I can teach you how to survive as an Immortal. If you want me to, I will. It won't be an easy process. I see no point in lying to you about that. You have some disadvantages, but you can be taught to fight around them."  
  
Reggie nodded slowly, biting his lip. "I don't think I can kill anyone, Karolek."  
  
"Everyone thinks that, until they face their first Challenge and their life depends on it. You probably though the same thing, until the first attack wave during the war, right?" The Russian asked of the younger man. Reggie nodded. "No one who served on Roanoke would dispute the idea. Survival comes from the will to keep living. I see every reason to believe that you can and will. Once you learn the basics of how to survive, the sky's the limit. You can do whatever you like."  
  
"So when do we get started?"  
  
"Soon enough." Karolek said with a smile. "Before we do, there's something I need to stress to you. We'll call it your first lesson."  
  
"Okay." Reggie drawled slowly. "What is it?"  
  
"Immortality is a gift. It's not one that mortals readily understand, and it's NOT one you can share with people. If someone like Jake Featherston found out about our kind, you can only imagine what he would do with us. Scientific research, forced mercenary work...nothing good can come of mortal society knowing we exist. Guard this secret carefully, Reginald. What you choose to do with it and whom you choose to tell is your own decision. Be careful."  
  
"I will."  
  
Vaulting to his feet, Karolek extended his hand to Reggie and helped the brown-haired man to his feet. "Good then. Come on."  
  
"Where are we going?" Reggie asked, collecting the two empty coffee mugs.  
  
"Back inside." The blond former prince answered simply. "I need to find Kai and beg the loan of her house in Greece for a little while. It has the benefits of being on Holy Ground and on an island off the coast. It's the best, most isolated place I can think of to start your training that's not my home in Moscow."  
  
Chuckling slightly, Reggie asked, "What's wrong with your house in Moscow? Is it too small or something?"  
  
"Hardly." Karolek laughed, walking up the steps with his new student. "When I was still mortal, I was the prince of Moscow. The house is a palace. But it's still quite cold in Moscow. I'd rather be in the sun for the time being. Plus you grew up in the CSA. It's not exactly the center for cold winter weather. The privation you dealt with in the trenches has NOTHING on a Moscow winter."  
  
"It's March." Reggie pointed out.  
  
"Still winter in Moscow."  
  
Reggie halted at the door, placing a hand to his forehead. "My head hurts again." He complained.  
  
"That's from being so close to me and Connor." Karolek explained, assisting the younger Immortal inside. "You haven't been around many Immortals long enough to really get hit with it before. It'll go away with experience and exposure, and you'll only feel it as a slight sensation. It's a warning to let you know when other Immortals are close by."  
  
Connor came out of the kitchen to see the other two Immortals enter. Reading the look on Reggie's face, he suggested, "Why don't you take the spare bedroom, get some sleep Reggie? You've been up a long time, and had a lot to process, I'm sure."  
  
"Yeah." Reggie drawled. "I think I will. I can't thank y'all enough for helping me out like this."  
  
Connor waved his hand. "Keep your sword away from me and we'll call it even." Reggie departed, leaving the two old friends alone in the living room. "I made some eggs." Connor offered the Russian. "Hungry?"  
  
"Starved" Karolek agreed, meriting a groan from the Highlander. "What? You asked."  
  
"I'd like to have SOME food left in the house when you're done, Karo." Connor complained.  
  
"If they're as bad as the eggs you made the last time you cooked for me, I'll happily continue starving or make my own." Karolek retorted.  
  
The Highlander grinned. "Now we're talking." He thrust the spatula at Karolek. "Heaven knows how you learned, but ye've always been a better cook than me." The Russian rolled his eyes at the gesture and made no comment, but snagged a plate and piled some eggs and a few pieces of safe looking toast on his plate. Taking a hesitant bite, he shrugged his shoulders and reached for the salt. "Not horrible. Not great, but not as bad as the last ones."  
  
"I was drunk when I made the last ones." The Scot defended himself.  
  
"Oh. Right." Karolek said, remembering. He continued to eat his eggs in silence, watching the need to have information start to weigh on the Highlander.  
  
"Well?" Connor prompted.  
  
"Well what?" Karolek returned.  
  
Connor raised his eyebrows at the Russian. If Karolek had returned to being this intentionally obtuse, it could only mean one thing. He'd made his decision, Connor had been right, and the prince had no intention of telling the Highlander so. "Heh heh. Where are you taking him?"  
  
"Taking who?"  
  
"Your new student." Connor insisted.  
  
Karolek looked over at Connor. His gray eyes were pale, no emotion visible within. "What new student, Connor?"  
  
Now the Scot was confused. "So that speech Reggie gave when he came back in was what? Good Southern manners?"  
  
"The y'all and the thank you?" Karolek laughed. "You've met Mackenzie. Y'all comes out of their mouth all the time, doesn't mean anything. And manners are very important to the South."  
  
"Now you're just acting this way to be a pain."  
  
Laughing harder, Karolek confessed that Connor was right. "He's my new student."  
  
"So where are you taking him?" Connor repeated his earlier question. "It's not that you're not welcome here, but this is hardly an ideal place for lessons with a sword."  
  
"No." Karolek agreed. "Far too crowded. People would notice. You remember Kai?"  
  
"The Roman?" Connor asked. "The slave from Caesar's household?"  
  
"One and the same." Karolek acknowledged. He'd met Kai about 200 years ago, and the ancient Immortal had taken him on as a pseudo-student, honing some of his skills with a sword. In addition to being a good fighter and a good friend, Kai was something of a financial wizard. She'd taught him how to hide his money in places where no one would ever find it, as well as how to shuffle real estate and other important holdings through his 'progeny' without anyone being suspicious about the constant reoccurrence of the name Karolek. In return for the lessons, Karolek had caught up to the student who had tried to kill her and taught him a pretty thorough lesson about loyalty. "She owes me a pretty big favor. Has a house in Greece that's perfect for this."  
  
"And she's just going to hand you the keys?"  
  
"Yes." Karolek grinned. "Because I am sweet and lovable and she likes me." Connor made some gagging noises in the background. "It's not my fault that Duncan and I beat you to all the ladies, Connor. Maybe you need to polish your skills in that area, some."  
  
"Do you want to get tossed out of my house?" Connor asked rhetorically. "Is that where this is going?"  
  
~~~~~~~~ Two weeks later  
  
"Mail." Connor called out as he entered the house. "Package. Feels heavy."  
  
"Great." Karolek said, coming to take the small box from the Highlander. "Kai said she'd have her lawyers send the keys to the place and a note for the groundskeepers to keep them from coming out to the place while we're there." Slicing open the tape with the dagger from the back of his neck, he took a quick inventory of the contents. "Looks like it's all here."  
  
"How are we getting there?" Reggie asked, walking out of the kitchen and wiping his hands on a towel. While not a great cook, the confederate was proficient enough that the older Immortals had basically insisted that he take a turn at the stove as well. Every three nights, they found themselves eating fried chicken or ham, because they were the only things Reggie actually knew how to cook.  
  
"Ship to Spain, then another through the Med to Greece. Then we need to get a smaller local boat that we can run out to Lyskos. Kai's house is on the end of the island, completely by itself. The only village near Lyskos is on another island, nearly 3 miles away. It's more than private enough for our purposes. We leave tomorrow, so make sure everything is packed." Looking through a sheaf of papers, he asked, "Did you look at the information on your passport?"  
  
"Sure." Reggie nodded. "Reggie Martin, from Washington DC. Pleased to meet y'all."  
  
"You might want to consider loosing the y'all." Connor suggested. "Accents that are too identifiable as belonging to one country or another are an easy way to stick out."  
  
Reggie considered this. "Karolek still has his."  
  
"Karolek isn't very smart."  
  
"I am still in the room, Connor." Karolek pointed out. "And I think the chicken is burning, Reggie." The southerner dashed off into the kitchen to check on dinner.  
  
"He's a good guy." Connor mused aloud. "He'll do well."  
  
"Presuming I don't screw him up, da." Karolek agreed. "He'll be fine."  
  
"He will." The highlander insisted. "And so will you. If I didn't think you could handle this, Karo, I'd step in and say so."  
  
"Well you never have been one for mincing words." The Russian conceded.  
  
Connor placed the flat case which held Book's schiavona on the counter. "Take this."  
  
Hesitantly, Karolek reached for the sword case. He laid a gentle hand on the top, as if expecting the wood, leather, and metal to burn his fingers. When nothing happened, he slid the case closer and snapped open the hinges. He opened it to expose the dead Immortal's sword, the blued steel of the basket hilt dully reflecting the light. The silver steel of the blade winked back at him, a reminder. "You think it's right?"  
  
Connor nodded. "A sword like this was made for a fighter. Reggie will prove to be that, in time. Perhaps giving it to a good man will negate the bad that was done with it by its previous owner." He shrugged.  
  
"That's very profound." Karolek muttered.  
  
"Sound less surprised, will you?" The Highlander instructed his friend indignantly. He received a snort in return. "Heal yourself, Karolek. It starts here. It ends with that," He pointed to the blade, "in Reggie's hands and him well trained. In between...who knows what you can do for him and for yourself."  
  
The two men embraced quickly. "-Thank you, Connor.-" Karolek said sincerely. "For everything."  
  
"-You're welcome.-" Connor replied.  
  
"Hey Karolek! Connor!" Reggie's southern drawl called from the kitchen. "How do you feel about Cajun chicken for dinner?"  
  
"Why do I get the feeling he's talking about carbon blackened and not the Cajun kind?"  
  
Connor chuckled. "Because occasionally you can be perceptive in spite of yourself."  
  
"Why thank you, Connor." Karolek groused. "You've swept me off my feet."  
  
"Come on." Connor put his arm around his friend. "Let's go eat and celebrate this new adventure you're embarking on. Who knows, you might even make it out alive."  
  
"-Wonderful.-" 


	4. Chapter 3: Changing Landscapes

_Finally, something resembling an idea to move the plot forward. It's a weak section, I know, and it's also pretty short. But I think I can get from here to the next section, if only I can find the time! No one mentioned this 'having a job thing' was so time consuming._

_As before, all Highlander characters and concepts are the property of their owners. Reggie and Featherston are the property of Harry Turtledove. I don't own them and am making no profit on them._

_This section is written in a series of journal entries by Reggie and Karolek._

July 3, 1936

Lyskos, Greece

Where to begin. Well, a short explanation of why I'm writing this would probably be in order. I'm an Immortal. We'll get that out of the way right now. Apparently I've been one for about ten years or so, but I'm only getting around to my training now. I always did want to be different.

Karolek says I should start keeping a journal. He claims that sooner or later I'll want to remember all the things I did when I was starting out, but that memory is only finite and I'll forget a lot of stuff. I can't imagine living long enough to forget things I did when I was a grown man, but then I still can't imagine living as long as Karolek or Connor, or the woman whose house we're staying in. I understand all about Immortality, I even believe that it happened to me. But it just doesn't seem real. Like it's all some fantastic dream, and I'll wake up in a hospital somewhere with a concussion from where that Freedom Party goon hit me. And then, of course, I report for combat training and get the piss whaled out of me. That's a pretty good stop to the illusion thing.

I don't see myself doing anything now that I'll really want to remember. Hopefully I'll get better at this fighting thing. Right now I seem to be dying and wrecking a lot of shirts. Karolek wants me to learn to fight with my left hand, since that's stronger. That'd be great, were it not for the fact that I'm right handed. Lately, my days seem to be made up of 'get up, get dressed, go for a run on the beach, do some hand to hand fighting, do some sword fighting, eat dinner, collapse, repeat.' I swear this Russian actually enjoys torturing me.

There's not much to do here. We get newspapers every so often from the town at the other end of the island. I think they're way behind the actual news, since every issue I read is at least two weeks past date. Karolek seems to be waiting for bad news of some kind, though what, I couldn't say. Most of the papers seem to be from the Yank-Hun alliance, so news of what's going on inside the Entente is few and far between. I wonder what it's like in Virginia, now that Featherston is in charge of the whole country. Seems so far away now. I wonder if one day I'll get a chance to strike out against the thug. Probably not anytime soon. I'm barely trusted to go to the end of the island alone.

The Prince doesn't make for great company. Every time I ask why, he brushes me off with some comment about needing to sort things out, or having a lot on his mind. Man knows damn near everything about me, I don't know much about him. Oh, I know the basics. His name is Romanov, he's 400 in change, used to be the Prince of Moscow, fought with Morrell in the war. But I get the feeling there's a lot he's not telling me.

Must go, I hear the siren call of a whupping calling from the front porch. Swords and death, here I come.

Reggie

July 22, 1936

I'm going to kill Connor. I'm quite sure of that. I haven't decided when, exactly, or how, but I will kill him. I'll make it painful, too. Better go back to those old journals of Papa's, he was a first rate bd and is sure to have something good for me to do to the Highlander.

I am not cut out to have a student like this. It's not the physical, though that's certainly coming in its own sweet time. If it wasn't for the fact that I think he might be worse, I'd tell him to go back to his right hand and learn that way. I think I killed him 4 different times, today alone! We'll be here forever at the rate we're going. No, the physical doesn't bother me, it'll come in its own time. It's his personality that makes me want to kill Connor. If it weren't for that damned Highlander, goading me into taking him on as a student, I would have indulged my own reluctance and hunted down Mackenzie or someone else to do it.

The man asks questions, incessantly. And not the good, productive kind, like how to care for a sword or what cities are better than others to live in. No, he wants to know about me, the personal detail type things.

I am not in the mood to tell Reggie that I worked for Ivan the Terrible, that I used to be a headhunter and have killed several Immortals in the name of vengeance alone. And sometimes even less than vengeance. I certainly don't want to tell him what I was like in my mortal days, when I was a crown prince and then a prince, a commander of armies and a generally obnoxious person. My tales of being cast out by my own brother don't exactly fill me with warmth, I can't imagine what he'd take away from them. Yet Reggie persists in asking.

I'm going to kill him. Connor, that is. Maybe Reggie, too. We'll see how far the darkness inside me goes when it finally cuts loose. I know that it will, that much is inevitable. I take my turn with it every so often. After all, I didn't need to join up with the Americans during the last war. I could have gotten out of the country, gone somewhere where there was no fighting. I certainly didn't need to be a sniper if I did fight. And yet, there's some small part of me, something that my father nurtured, that glories in military conflict…that actually enjoys the blood and the death and being the instrument of both. I don't like that part of me, I hate when that part of me is in control. Every so often, it takes over. What if it does while I'm here? Could I really be sucked back into the kind of life I once led? Would I care if I did?

--Karolek

August 17, 1936

Glory be! Today is a day of achievement. I actually managed to land some damaging cuts on Romanov. Granted, in about 5 minutes I was flat on my back with his sword at my neck, him staring at me with those gray eyes. They're really quite frightening in how little they reveal. I never know if he's going to yell at me, kill me, or just play nice. Nevertheless, improvement is improvement. I have faith that some day I may actually be able to leave this little island and go DO things.

Reggie

August 19, 1936

This must by my week. Improvement in my sword skills, and now improvement on the human front. In that my teacher actually seems inclined to act like one. He told me the story of how he and Connor met. It's nothing spectacular, but I feel like I've actually won something in his volunteering the information. And I think I'd like to meet this Duncan guy. He sounds like an all right sort, very loyal and just…almost like a character out of some kind of novel or story.

I wonder what Immortal protocol is regarding friends of your teacher. It's probably bad form to challenge them, but I wonder if it keeps them from challenging you. I suppose it depends on how good the friend is. Not like I'd ever go after Connor. The way that Karolek speaks about his skills, I get the feeling he respects the Highlander a fair bit. And even if he didn't, Connor was nice to me when I needed it. I won't go challenging him anytime soon. But I wonder about some of these other people that Karolek mentioned. Erich or Kamani or Mackenzie or Kai.

The thing I still can't quite figure out is why I have this. Why me, a lowly pharmacist's assistant, the son of a bank clerk who never broke Corporal in the army? A cripple who was dumb enough to take on a couple of goons? I haven't got the strength or the brains of most, yet I'm the one that's going to be young forever. Doesn't make any sense. Further proof, I guess, that God has a strange sense of humor.

Reggie

September 1, 1936

Reggie's starting to grow on me. He's tempered a little, not asking quite so many questions as he did when he first got here. He's even starting to show some good sword skills. The hand to hand part is less impressive, but then I always expected that to a degree. I'll take him as far as I can, but he'll never be good. Some people just have to rely on faith and luck.

Having had a chance to talk to him, he's basically a good guy. Seems to be on the right side of things…doesn't have the vibe that John Colby gave off when he tried to kill Kai. At least I don't think so. I'm going off of secondhand information in that respect. He certainly doesn't have the makings of a Grayson or a Kurgan. He's gotta stop thinking with his emotions quite so much, though. The very evidence of that is in the way that he died. A fight over a political poster? Very impractical.

I've offered him an abbreviated version of some events of my life, and told him the full tales of others. I told him all about Sabine, and how I nearly died trying to avenge her murder, hoping to get him to understand that when it comes to the fighting, you can't do it on emotion. Maybe the lesson stuck. I don't know. Time will tell.

The papers have been bad, lately. It seems like nations are faltering all over the world. I read the headlines with one eye to Moscow. Nikolai would have a hard enough challenge holding Russia together if he didn't have a depression to worry about. That, plus Alexsei's continued illness, does not bode well for the family I left behind. War is coming again…I can feel it in the air, almost like a quickening as it starts to take shape. There's an electric charge that I can't quite describe.

I cannot change the world. I learned that lesson many, many years ago. As much as Immortals might like to pretend otherwise, the world does not bend to their will. And so, for the time being, I will sit on Kai's Grecian paradise. I will continue to teach Reggie, and I may even befriend him. And I will read the newspapers, and I will watch the horizon to the north. If the storm clouds should appear, I will be ready.

Karolek

January 1, 1937

50 miles north of Sarajevo

A new year. A new existence. A new scene. I write this from my cramped little cabin on some train headed through Yugoslavia to Moscow. I never thought I would say this, but oh, how I miss Greece. Or more rather, I miss its warmth. There is snow all over the fields as they slide by. And it will only get colder as we continue on towards Moscow. This I have been promised by my increasingly cheerful companion.

It's quite scary, really, to see the change this has wrought in Karolek. It's as if going home has tapped into some heretofore unseen part of his personality – the human part. He doesn't talk much about what his life was like before he was Immortal. Some days I wonder if he remembers much about his mortal life…or if he does and chooses to forget it. What kind of childhood could make a man want to forget it all? My own life as a boy was very…typical. You could say idyllic, if you chose. My dad worked as a bank clerk, made a decent wage. My mother, like most mothers in the CSA, stayed at home with me and my brother Thomas while he was still alive. Scarlet fever, he was 4. I felt pride in being part of the CSA, of having that heritage of beating the USA in two wars, of having strong friends and plenty of Negro labor. Of being a well-bred white man. I was happy enough, served my term in the army, found a decent job as a pharmacist's assistant. Sometimes, when my Russian torturer is not whipping me senseless – as he is still more likely to do than not – I think about my parents. I wonder if they're still alive, if they ever looked for me. If they mourned for me. I know that I'll never be able to see them again if they are alive, but I still would like to know what has become of them.

I'm not entirely sure why we're going to Moscow. I know that Karolek has been reading the papers anxiously over the last few months, though I haven't the faintest idea what he was looking for. When we packed to leave Lyskos, he mentioned something about the tsar and some kind of promise.

I'm more excited about the prospect of this trip, even if it is freezing out there. I wonder what Moscow will look like. I wonder when I'll ever be done with this interminable training. I wonder when I will be able to go and live my own life. I wonder if I can really kill another person, face to face with a sword. I wonder…

Reggie


	5. Chapter 4: Arrival in Moscow

_So the plot bunnies haven't really been helping me out on this one, but what can you do. I'll find them and get them working in my favor._

_As always, Reggie is the property of Harry Turtledove and any Highlander references belong to the Highlander people. They're being used without permission and I'm making no profit on them. Karolek belongs to me, but not much else. _

_Any dialogue encased in hyphens is in Russian._

**Moscow**

**January 10th, 1937**

Karolek breathed deeply as he climbed out of the car that they'd ridden in up to the…well, to call it anything other than a palace would have been understating. The air practically crackled with the cold, and inhaled the pureness as deep as he possibly could. He hadn't been home in far too long. He'd almost forgotten what it smelled like. He'd needed this trip. Probably he should have come home as soon as the war as over, but he'd put it off and stayed in the USA. Certainly he should have come home after he'd fought Jacob Book. But he'd gone to visit Connor. 'Nevermind all that, idiot.' Karolek mentally chided himself. 'This is a homecoming. You're supposed to be enjoying yourself.'

"So this frozen piece of tundra is home?" Reggie's incongruous southern drawl floated behind him as the young Confederate unfolded himself from the car. He looked around at the tall pines and the large house, but his critical side took in the deep snowdrifts and icicles. He'd been born and raised in Virginia, and while it did snow from time to time, it rarely got THIS bitterly cold. He had on several sweaters under his long coat along with heavy wool trousers and a muffler, but he was still freezing. "I'll bet it looks nicer from the inside." He shook his head at his teacher, thinking that the centuries had finally started to catch up to the prince. How anyone could prefer this stretch of frozen snow and woods to the much warmer comforts of Kai's estate on Lyskos was beyond him.

"It was." Karolek conceded. The smile that had been on his face disappeared as his dark gray gaze shifted to the wooded lot beyond the stables. "My brother accidentally killed me, out in those woods. We were hunting." He sighed, and tucked a wisp of blond hair behind his ear with a gloved hand. "When I woke up again…it was a different time. Much more superstitious. He thought I was aligned with the devil, and he had just enough rage to throw me out. Had me banished. I walked away that night with what little my youngest brother could sneak out to me, and my sword. I never saw my mother or my sister or Ondrezj again." He offered Reggie a sad smile. "I was 21 years old."

"Your own brother threw you out when you were 21?" Reggie asked, incredulous. "How could they do that?"

"They had no answers." Karolek said softly, sadness in his face. "To believe that I was in league with the devil, it wasn't such a stretch. It was an answer, an explanation to the unexplainable." His gaze turned back to the woods. "I don't blame Ondrezj. We were always edgy with one another. He thought he was doing the right thing. I can't fault him that."

"Man, and I thought I'd heard just about everything about this Immortal business." Reggie replied. "You don't even blame your own brother for killing you."

Karolek regarded Reggie with his penetrating gray eyes. "Do you blame the Freedom Party man who killed you?"

Reggie shifted uneasily under his teacher's stare. He'd never given much thought to the man who'd killed him, starting him on this strange and heretofore unimaginable path. For so long, he hadn't had any answers about why he was still alive. Then when he did have them, he'd started training and learning and hadn't had much time to really think on what had happened to him. "I don't know." He confessed. "I never really thought about it."

Karolek nodded, appreciating the honesty. "Judge not, lest ye be judged." He recited, remembering one of the lessons of his mother's long ago religious teachings. "Unless you're in a position where you have concrete opinions of your own life, it is usually unwise to start commenting on the lives of others."

"Right." Reggie agreed, again wondering if that look in those gunmetal orbs meant that Karolek was going to let the subject go or draw his sword. "Do y'all think we might go inside now? It's mighty cold out here."

Karolek laughed, willing the ghosts back to the recesses of his mind. "Rebel wuss." He grinned at Reggie's indignant look, before pulling the Confederate's bag out of the trunk and tossing it at him. "Get yourself into the house, then." He pulled his own out and shut the trunk, falling into step with his student as they made their way up the stairs to the building. Reggie's limp was far less noticeable than it had been when they'd first started training. All the running on the beach had been good to strengthen the muscles. While Reggie would never be strong (or for that matter, fight with his right arm), perhaps he wouldn't be quite the easy prey Karolek had been concerned he would be.

"You call this a house?" Reggie asked incredulously as they finished walking up the steps.

"Well sure." Karolek sized up the large stone building as the door opened at their approach. "I grew up here. What would you call it?"

"Palace. Castle. Mansion." Reggie joked back, only half in jest.

"Nyet." Karolek joked back. "You should see Peterhoff, in St. Petersburg. That's much bigger. Or the Imperial Palace."

"Right, I'll just go visit the imperial palace." Reggie shook his head. 'Strange man.'

The two Immortals filed in past the house manager, who nodded politely at Reggie before addressing Karolek. "-Welcome home, your highness.-"

"-Thank you.-" Karolek nodded back at the man. Setting down his bag, he cast some quick glances about the foyer. It had been improved some from his childhood, adding modern conveniences as they became available. The heating system was vastly improved from the fireplaces and braziers of his youth, and the electric lighting gave the palace a much brighter glow than candles and torches. He motioned to Reggie, introducing him as, "Mr. Reginald Martin, a guest of mine. He has no Russian."

"Very good sir." The butler nodded, before addressing Reggie in halting English. "Mr. Martin. I am Sergei. If I can do for you, please say to me. I am only one with English."

"Right." Reggie smiled hesitantly at the man he assumed was the butler. "Sergei. I'll remember that." He'd never been around white servants, so he had no real idea how to treat the man, or any others he might encounter. All his life the servants he'd been around were black…not that he really knew how to treat them anymore, either. His time in the US Army hospital, talking to Rehoboam, hadn't done much to straighten out his views. This uncomfortableness with being one of the 'elite' would take some time to get over. That, and the language. Only two people in his immediate acquaintance spoke English. He supposed he'd have to start studying Russian if they were planning to stay there long. Another question to ask Karolek when they were alone.

Reggie had been so lost in his thoughts, he hadn't heard the continued conversation between Karolek and Sergei. Sergei was explaining what rooms had been prepared for the two visitors, since most of the palace was closed to conserve heat and preserve the rooms and their contents. Karolek was listening carefully to his manager's accounting of the estate and its status, and had explained that whomever answered the door was not to worry about taking his or Reggie's coats.

"Come on, Reggie." Karolek said to his student as Sergei motioned for a young girl to take their bags upstairs. "Sergei is going to have Anna show us where we're staying."

Reggie nodded, watching the young Anna reach for his bag. His inbred Southern manners kicked in automatically. "No, miss. I can take that myself."

Anna stopped, looking first at Reggie, and then at Karolek, who had removed his overcoat and was standing in his suit. She had no idea what the older, darker haired man had said. The blond young man was the master of the house, he wore the coat of arms of the Romanov family on his suit lapel. He was in charge. "Your highness?"

"-It's all right, Anna. Lead the way.-" Anna nodded, taking Reggie's bag and moving to the stairs. "Reggie, I know she's just a girl, but carrying the bags is her job." Reggie moved to protest. "I know. She's a girl, you weren't raised to have a girl do your work. However, people here take their jobs very seriously. And her job is to do what Sergei tells her. She's one of the maids."

Reggie shook his head. "Right." As Anna led the way up the stairs, Reggie slid up closer to Karolek. "How do you do that? Let a girl carry your bags for you?"

Karolek looked over at Reggie. "That's what she's paid for." He repeated. "I realize that it's not a race based system, but it's not exactly like you haven't been in a position where you had others doing your hard work for you."

Reggie flushed bright red. "But they weren't one of us." He protested. Even in his own ears, his protest sounded feeble.

"White, you mean." Karolek countered, something between despair and pity in his eyes. "They were meant to be servants because they were black. And what if I told you that Anna was meant to be a servant because she was poor?" He sighed and shook his head. "The difference is, if Anna wanted to leave tomorrow and go to St. Petersburg and be a waitress or work in a bar or a hotel or be whatever, she could. I'd even tell Sergei to write her a good reference and pay her in full before she went, if that's what she really wanted. Your blacks couldn't go anywhere without permission from a half a dozen different people and plenty of grief, and even then they'd have to have a job lined up before they'd be allowed. I'm not even remotely surprised that they rose up in rebellion. Hopeless situation, I've done it myself."

"You were in a rebellion?" Reggie raised his eyebrows. "Where?"

"Prague, against the Hungarians." Karolek replied. "1800's or somewhere there abouts. Here's the thing, Reggie. When people don't have anything to look to for tomorrow, when there's no hope left that any good is going to come of your life, it makes revolution seem like an awfully sensible answer."

"Can't say as I see that revolution's ever a sensible answer." Reggie reasoned. "All that fighting, shooting, it didn't get them anywhere. Whole lotta blacks hanged. Harsher penalties for any attacks on white folks, people like Jake Featherston in charge. Seems to me it made their life worse, not better." He chanced a glance at his teacher. "Where did your revolt against the Hungarians get you?"

"Me? Quite dead, as a matter of fact. Shot, more than once" He smiled lightly. "You're right in the long term, you know. Most revolutions and rebellions don't come off successfully, and seem to bring much in the way of success. The Czechs didn't get much out of their rebellion, any more than the Confederate blacks got out of theirs. But what about the ones that did succeed, Reggie? What about the French Third Estate? What about the Americans, against the British? Thirteen colonies against the most powerful military on the planet. No one gave them a chance." He watched Reggie nod absently, still not convinced.

"What about your rebellion, Reggie?" Reggie's brown eyes widened, and he whipped around to defend…what? His nation? He didn't have one, not anymore.

"I…" He stopped. "It wasn't a rebellion. We weren't trying to change a way of life, just protect our own."

Karolek nodded. "And so you pulled away from a government that you thought did not represent you. You formed your own government to watch out for your interests. And then you fought to protect it, against an enemy much larger and better supplied than you."

"And we won." Reggie nodded proudly.

"Thank you. Having been alive for four hundred years, I had no way of knowing that information." Reggie flushed, realizing how childish he'd sounded in his outburst. "You were fortunate to have someone like Lee, who was as gifted a military commander as one could hope to find during the times." He pursed his lips. "Had Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia lost at Gettysburg, I dare say that the war might have ended quite differently. Perhaps even with the Confederacy restored to the Union."

"Bah." Reggie waved a hand. "Never happen. The CSA would have kept on fighting, rather than going back to the Yanks, hat in hand. Never would have happened."

Karolek just rolled his eyes and followed Anna into the bedroom set aside for him. Some arguments were better avoiding, if you could get away with it. Reggie might have had a USA passport – much more accepted in Russia than any Entente alliance one – but he was still a Confederate at heart. He supposed he understood. Even after 400 years, Russia was still home, and a Romanov still his king. What he'd gained in 400 years, or so he hoped, was the ability to distinguish between the blind pride of nationalism and the more practical pride of a patriot.

"Wow." Reggie breathed softly, following his escorts into the room. Karolek's bedroom was large and open, with stone walls, ceilings, and wood floors. Rich curtains adorned the windows, and everything about the room basically screamed money. The paintings, mostly landscapes, were gilt edged, the bed had a high canopy decorated with the same heavy blue curtains that framed the windows. A larger version of the crest that Karolek was wearing on his lapel hung above the bed, the faded colors suggesting that it was probably as old as the palace it hung in. Several rugs were scattered about the beds, large table/desk, and dresser. Otherwise the room was basically empty, with a small door leading into what he assumed was a bathroom. Somewhere in the years since the invention of indoor plumbing, Karolek must have paid to have modern conveniences installed in his palace.

Anna set the bag belonging to Karolek down on the edge of the bed, bowing and saying something fast to the prince. Karolek nodded, replied in the same language, and Anna scurried out of the room.

"Anna says they've prepared the room across the hall for you. They'll unpack everything while we're at dinner and put it away for you."

"That's nice." Reggie continued to stare around the room, slowly walking to examine one of the landscapes.

"Dinner will probably be around 5 o'clock. It gets dark very early here."

"That's nice."

"I'm thinking of running away to join the circus."

"That's nice."

"REGGIE!" Karolek barked, startling his student out of the trance he seemed to have slipped into.

"What?" Reggie shook his head. "Hell, you didn't have to yell so damned loud. I'm right here."

"And your mind was a thousand miles away." Karolek corrected. "Did you hear ANYTHING I said?"

"Not really, no."

"You're across the hall. Dinner's at five." Reggie nodded. Karolek glanced at his wristwatch. About 2. They'd had lunch in Moscow before setting out to the house. "Go and get your sword."

The Confederate's face fell visibly. "My sword?" His southern accent managed to turn the question of disappointment into a whine with very little effort on Reggie's part.

"Your sword. Get changed into practice clothes and go and get it. I'll meet you down in the foyer and show you where the great hall is. That'll do for a practice area."

"Do we really have…" the rest of the sentence died on Reggie's lips as soon as he looked at his teacher's unamused gray eyes. "Going."

Karolek watched Reggie flee the room for his own across the hall. Shaking his head, Karolek drew his own sword from the confines of his overcoat and set it down on the desk. Yes, some payback was more than in order for Connor, for getting him into this one. He just had to decide what form the punishment would best take. Happy in the concept of a little personal revenge, the Prince of Moscow began to look for suitable clothing of his own. First things first, after all. A little practice for Reggie, his own workout, and dinner. Tomorrow he'd make his trip to the Imperial Palace to talk to Nikolai and his family.

Changed and ready, Karolek left his room behind, calling for his Southern student as he made his way to the stairs.


End file.
